


A Trio of Lonely Men

by modbees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modbees/pseuds/modbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after the end of The Sign of Three. </p>
<p>Greg receives a call from Mycroft who is worried about the affect John's wedding has had on Sherlock. </p>
<p>Mycroft also has something important to get off his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trio of Lonely Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fan fiction. I've read quite a few, but I haven't ever written any and I thought I'd try my hand at it. Sorry for any inadequacies or mistakes. I do love both of these ships with all of my hearts and I hope I can go some way to do them justice. Ooh and smut is a no no, at this current moment. Quite a large one. Apologies for any inconveniences this might cause.

"I- I'll just be a minute," said Greg, gesturing a 'one' with his left hand to Molly who was stood smiling and shuffling to music in front of him, definitely feeling the affects of the alcohol in her system. "I just have to take a call." His voice was barely audible underneath the rather loud Bohemian Rhapsody, both playing from the sound system and booming from practically every guest's lips, most of whom didn't care that they were getting most of the words wrong and they were all out of key.

Molly nodded, her contented smile stretching into an omniscient grin, and turned to face Tom again. Greg made his way out of the party, pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. He made casual apologies to people as he pushed between them. The screen lit up and the phone continued to vibrate in his hand. He read the number on the screen. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he barely concealed the pleasant twist in his stomach. As subtly as possible, he stepped outside and out of view of the windows, glancing back at John and Mary who were dancing together, beaming at everyone and, of course, each other. Greg accepted the call and smiled as he brought his mobile up to his ear. "Lestrade." he said, calmly.

"Ah, Gregory, I was wondering when you were going to decide to pick up," The voice was soft and sent a wave of relief through the detective, and his smile broadened.

"I thought you'd said you would come. I'm sure John would've appreciated it."

"Don't be ridiculous, why would anyone want me there? He invited me out of courtesy, you know that." His tone expressed an arrogance, but Greg knew that his question was tragically genuine. 

"It's good to hear from you, Mycroft. I haven't seen you for a few days. I was beginning to think you'd had second thoughts." He leaned against the wall as the song changed again, to an Elton John classic this time. The rowdy singing of slightly drunk wedding guests didn't ease up.

There was a slight pause and a quiet sigh. "It's good to hear your voice." said Mycroft.

"It's good to hear yours too." Greg blushed, pleased that no one could see him and felt warmed in the chill of the wind by the sentiment.

Mycroft's smile was almost audible, and Greg imagined him sat at his big wooden desk, grinning childishly into his phone. "Thank you," he said.

"I've missed you."

"I know."

"Oh how humble!" Greg laughed and pushed his left hand into his pocket.

"Oh, you know what I meant. I miss you too." Mycroft sighed.

There was a short silence and Mycroft appeared to be thinking.

After around fifteen seconds, Greg whispered, "Are you still there Mycroft?"

"Yes, uh, sorry. I was just calling to ask about Sherlock. How is he? Coping well?"

"I presume so. Why wouldn't he-" Greg hesitated and turned his head towards the party. "Hold on a second."

With a furrowed brow, he hummed and stepped away from the wall to look through the windows. He hadn't seen the younger Holmes since the first dance, and it had been a good two hours since then. Any effort he made to spot Sherlock within the crowd of smiling faces was to no avail. "He - he must have left. I can't see him." said Greg, stepping back out of view.

An exasperated sigh came from the speaker of his phone. "I did tell him. I told him not to get too close." He paused, and Greg thought that he should probably input something into the conversation, but he couldn't think of anything to say. "Right, Gregory, I'd like to ask a favour of you, if you wouldn't awfully mind."

"Yes; I mean no, of course, anything."

"I need you to find Sherlock. I'll help you, but I need you to see if he's alright. This night was always going to be a danger night, and I need to know that he's not lying dead, having choked on his own vomit in a squat." Mycroft's voice was harsh and tense, and Greg knew exactly what he was feeling.

"Right. Yes. Where should I start?" He walked brusquely in through the doors and snatched his coat from where he'd left it after he'd got back from the station, shrugging it onto his shoulders and stepping back out into the cold. "Baker Street?"

"Yes. Baker Street. Quickly."

"I'll ring you if I find him." Greg pulled the phone away from his face to hang up, but stopped when he realized Mycroft had said something else. "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that," he said.

"Don't mock me Gregory. You know what I said."

"No, really, I didn't." He climbed into his car, suddenly grateful that he hadn't had enough to drink to get tipsy.

"I said, be careful." There was another pause, and Greg smiled as he turned his key in the ignition. "And I love you."

This was a first. Mycroft had never said anything of the sort to anyone besides his mother, and certainly not to Greg in the seven months and fifteen days they'd been regularly meeting each other. As far as relationships went, it was a very peculiar one. Greg's frustration in not having Sherlock by his side had driven him to ask Mycroft for his assistance instead. While providing him the means and technology to do his job more efficiently than otherwise, Mycroft never met the detective, until one very pressing case involving a gentleman with a little more information about the British government than was naturally healthy for any live man, other than Mycroft Holmes, to possess.

They shared their first kiss two months later. It was fumbled and clumsy, a life time of inexperience blatantly obvious. 

The following months were filled with smiling, work, lots of coffee and keeping each other company. The kisses were few, far between and only gradually less shy, but they were still wonderful as far as Greg was concerned.

Suddenly shoved back into that moment, Greg zoned back in to find himself staring into the steering wheel, Mycroft calling his name to retrieve his attention. 

"Gregory, are you still there? Are you okay?"

His lips moved and the cleverly formulated words whirling in his head refused to come out. Instead, he made a noise as if he was trying to speak, without adequately saying anything.

"What?" Mycroft seemed hurt. Maybe he thought Greg was hesitant is returning those powerful words. Maybe he always thought he wouldn't.

"I love you too. I really do."

The dial tone ended the call, and Greg shoved his phone into his pocket, conscious of his heart beat, erratic in his chest. He pushed down the handbrake and made his way into the city, driving much too quickly when no one was looking. His mind was spinning over what had just happened. Mycroft had said that he loved him. And by God, he loved him too. He loved him more than he'd ever loved any of his girlfriends; even his wife. He loved Mycroft Holmes. Their relationship had been so secretive before. He supposed that it couldn't be like that now. Now that he'd told him he loved him. He pulled up outside of 221B and jumped out of his car, banging on the door.

"Sherlock! Are you there?!" He pulled out a key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock. It took him a few attempts to unlock the door with shaking hands. Still calling, Greg took the steps three at a time and barged into the empty flat above. It occurred to him that his gun was firmly pressed into his right hand and couldn't recall why he thought that it was necessary.

After checking the living room, Sherlock's bedroom and the kitchen for any sign of him, Greg sighed and stepped into the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. Turning to leave, he heard a small sound - the sound of a whimpering dog or a lost child - and looked up towards the ceiling. "Sherlock?"

It silenced suddenly and Greg cautiously made his way up the second flight of stairs. He pushed open the door of John's room - or, at least, the room that had belonged to John - and saw Sherlock, collapsed against the bed, sat on the carpet with his knees braced against his chest and his face buried in his hands. He was a heap of clothes and curls, dead still once the door creaked gently open. The lamp beside the bed was missing a bulb and the mattress bare, other than an old pillow propped up against the headboard. Unused for so long. Sherlock must have left the room as it was when he moved back in, without John. Although the room wasn't particularly cold, a chill was definitely present. Greg thought this was probably because of how bare and unnecessarily dull it was. The body in a slump by his feet still hadn't moved by the time he spoke.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Why did you leave?" Greg remained stood in the doorway and pushed his gun into the back of his coat.

His body refused to move, but a quiet shaking breath escaped his lips, followed by a shiver. "Go away Graham."

Disregarding Sherlock's request (and the obvious, consistent way in which he insists on getting his name wrong), Greg leaned forward and bent his knees trying to see his face. "Are you okay?." He'd never seen Sherlock like this; never thought he was capable of being like this. Although, he'd never really understood Sherlock at all. 

"I'm fine," he lied. "Really, please leave." He shuffled and pulled his body into a smaller space, shrinking away from the moment. 

"Look at me." Greg stood up again, looking down at the younger Holmes. "Look at me!" he repeated, forcefully. 

After a few seconds, Sherlock complied and took his hands from his face, slowly angling his head to face Lestrade. In the low light, Greg could see that his eyes were large and he had horribly tear stained cheeks. His hair was more wild than it usually was and his coat was pulled tight around his body. He'd been crying, and it didn't take a lifetime in the police force to figure out why.

"Jesus, Sherlock." Greg didn't know what to do or how to respond to the situation. He remained standing and put his arm out as if to touch him on the shoulder before retracting it quickly. "Mycroft sent me, he's worried about you," he said feeling the strain of Sherlock's eyes on his.

Sherlock's face fell onto his forearms which were stretched across his knees. "You can tell Mycroft that I promise to stay away from sharp objects and ropes, and that I don't have enough on me for a score. He shouldn't worry about his little brother so much." He spat the words, filled with a bitter derision. "I don't need you here. Please leave."

"You haven't lost him, you know. He's still your best friend. He'll always be your best friend. You don't -" Greg stopped when Sherlock sobbed into the sleeves of his coat, groaning quietly. 

He flailed his arms in the air, as if trying to hit Lestrade. "Get out!" he shouted, louder than Greg had ever heard him before. 

Without hesitation, he stepped back through the door, almost tripping down the steps as he reached the top. Sherlock kicked the door from across the room and it slammed shut, around four feet in front of Greg's face. He could hear the rather loud sobbing of the supposedly sociopathic man on the other side and decided it unwise to intervene further, so he turned and hopped down the steps, fishing his phone out of his pocket and punching in the number. By the time he'd reached the front door and closed it behind him, the call connected.

"Gregory, have you found him?" There was a real urgency in his tone. 

"Yes Mycroft, don't worry, he's at home, in the flat. He's -" He looked around, down the length of the orange lit street. "He's crying."

Mycroft didn't say anything. The line fell silent and Greg felt useless. "Right, he'll be fine. Leave him until morning. He's not going anywhere," said Mycroft with an authoritative voice. "I'm coming to get you. Meet us on the corner"

Once again, Mycroft hung up, and Greg was left listening to the dialing tone. He seemed to have a habit of doing that. Within a minute of him reaching the corner of the street, a sleek black car had pulled up beside him. The driver swept out and around to open the door for him in what seemed like one quick, fluid movement. "Thanks," uttered Greg at the surreality of the gesture, before the door was closed behind him. He looked ahead at the back of the seat in front of him for a second, before turning to face a smiling Mycroft with one leg crossed over the other and eyes that made him feel comfortable. He was dressed as sharply as ever, in a grey three-piece suit and an umbrella on his far side behind his knee.

"Thank you," he said, softly, extending a hand to Greg.

He took it gladly in both of his, stroking his knuckles gently. "He's fine. He told me to tell you that he - what was it? - he promises to stay away from sharp objects and -"

"Yes, okay, he's mocking me again." He rubbed at his temple with his other hand and put his head against the back of the seat.

Greg leaned over and kissed him, taking him by surprise and placing his free hand underneath his jaw. It was soft and gentle and better than it had ever been before. Greg moaned quietly, and Mycroft pulled away with a sharp intake of breath.

"Well, thank you for that too," said Mycroft. A gentle spatter of raindrops hit the window as the car moved through the streets to wherever it may have been going. 

"You are an affable chap, aren't you?"

"People never tire of telling me so." A halfhearted smile met his features and his eye lids were heavy.

"I think - I think we should talk about it. What you said. On the phone." Greg looked down at Mycroft's hand, and his own, unable to meet his gaze.

Mycroft turned to look out of the window. "What is there to talk about?"

"Well, did you mean it?" He looked up at Mycroft, his expression yearning, and Mycroft did the same, squeezing his hand ever so slightly.

"Did you? When you said it too?"

"Yes. My God, yes. I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life." He blushed, which was completely out of character for him... although, maybe not now, with Mycroft.

It was Mycroft's turn to initiate a kiss. He leaned forward and took Greg's face, pressing his cheek against the head rest between them. Each touch of lips sent a shiver down his spine. Never before had he experienced a connection like this with another person. Life was about logic and work and tolerating the goldfish he encountered along the way. He'd always said that love is just human error, but he'd grown to realize that error only applied to that which was logic, and love was never logic. He loved Gregory, and decades of his defenses were shedding with every word; every touch; every kiss. "I love you," he muttered.

For the rest of the journey, Greg leaned into Mycroft as he stroked his hair. He spoke about the wedding and the case of the Mayfly Man coming to quite an extravagant close. They laughed together as he recollected the beginning of Sherlock's best man speech and his attempt at reading out the telegrams, and then remembered the heart broken man, probably sprawled across the mattress of John's empty bed, quietly sobbing into the pillow.

Once they'd reached Mycroft's house, Greg took him inside by the hand, and they fell asleep together between the sheets of Mycroft's four poster bed. Well, not initially. 

Of the three lonely men, two had found each other. The other was lower than he'd ever been before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! No, seriously, thank you. I am disgustingly insecure.


End file.
